


palm of your eye

by tigrrmilk



Category: Captain America (Movies), FF (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Jupiter Ascending (2015), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:00:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3492701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/pseuds/tigrrmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>various short fics written for tumblr, based on prompts (mostly). all fandoms tagged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. steve & bucky & a crow

**Author's Note:**

> do come and find me on tumblr and send me more prompts at [alwaysalreadyangry](http://alwaysalreadyangry.tumblr.com/)!!  
> will add more soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first line as a prompt from capspatrioticpecs on tumblr

"I told you, it's not mine, it followed me home!"

"Uh-huh," Steve says. "Sure. Where were you that a crow decided to follow you home, anyhow?"

Bucky looked at his feet. The crow skipped up and down his arm, which he was holding at an awkward angle. Steve had asked him once if the metal arm tired like a normal arm did, and he’d said no, and Steve still wonders how it feels. Not against his body, as part of his body. How it feels against the world. How the crow feels. Its feet look like little claws.

"Some of them can be taught to talk," Steve says. He waves his empty coffee cup at it.

"It’s not staying," Bucky says, but he brushes his other hand against its feathers. It yelps, but doesn’t fly away.

"What do they eat?" Steve says.

"Worms, probably," Bucky says. The crow has moved up to his shoulder now, only an inch or so away from his ear. "Tickles," he says.

"That’s what you’re calling it, huh," Steve says.

"No, it tickles," Bucky says.

"Good a name as any," Steve says. "Clint called his dog Lucky."

"Crows are bad luck, aren’t they?" Bucky says. The bird’s feathers are in clumps. Tufts. It had been raining, maybe. It swivels its head. 

"I don’t know," Steve says. "Probably depends."


	2. maya hansen & fran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: maya hansen survives and takes down the government with her girlfriend while working at a flower shop/florist's as a cover  
> (from resplendeo on tumblr)

"I asked you to make up the rose bouquets," Fran says.

"Yeah, yeah," Maya says, tapping distractedly at her laptop with one hand and reaching out with the other one for —

"Here," she says, and looks up at Fran as she hands it to her.

"This is too big," Fran says. "The rose bouquets are meant to be small. That’s how we sell ‘em so cheap. You need like, half as few flowers."

"It’s not for us to sell," Maya says. "It’s for you. I put like, twenty bucks in the register earlier."

"What am I supposed to do with flowers," Fran says.

"I don’t know," Maya says. She wrinkles her nose. "Redistribute. They’ll stay fresh for  _weeks_. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a delivery to make.” She straps her boots up and pulls her hair into a loose bun, then spins the helmet around in her hands. “How long until you think the aide starts getting suspicious about the anonymous flowers?”

"You keep batting your eyes and you’ve got another few weeks, easy," Fran says, her mouth twisted, but her eyes smiling. Maya smiles and closely inspects the stamens of the flowers in the bunch, one eye closed. She brushes one of them with her hand, and blush of pollen sticks to her finger. She runs it under the tap then wipes her hand on her thigh.

"It’s amazing," she says. "How much they naturally look like microphones. And remember - don’t touch the laptop. It’s recording. If you start using it to order pizza again we might miss something."

"Boo," Fran says. "Nobody ever mounted a successful revolution on an empty stomach."

"Actually," Maya says.

"No," Fran says. "But you’d better pick something up for lunch on your way back. Something nice. Since I have to now make up the rose bouquets. You’re a terrible florist."

"Hey," Maya says. "I  _made_ those roses.”

"What was it you told me when we met?" Fran says, a hand on Maya’s wrist, a kiss to her cheek.

"Sorry for bleeding on you and could you take me to the hospital?"

"No, I was thinking about the other thing."

"Don’t you dare call me a botanist."

"Well," Maya says, helmet on her head now. "I’m not. Not that it’s a bad thing."


	3. jupiter jones & caine wise 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from swanjolras on tumblr: 
> 
> PLEASE WRITE JUPITER ASCENDING FAN FICTION ABOUT MILA KUNIS AND CHANNING TATUM ROAD TRIPPING TO SOMEWHERE ON EARTH SO CHANNING TATUM CAN DO SPACE TOURISM

"They can totally do without me for like a week," Jupiter says, her feet on the dashboard.

"Hmmm," Caine says. "Your majesty," he adds, as an afterthought.

"Hey, you can’t fly everywhere," Jupiter says, running a hand over his left wing as he drums a hand on the dashboard. 

"That’s not actually true," Caine says. "On earth, I can fly  _everywhere_.” His wing furls a little under her touch.

"Right," Jupiter says, with a smirk. "We’re almost there, anyway."

The town sign doesn’t mention the dog park, so she doesn’t tell him about it. He’ll find out when they get there. He looks straight ahead and parallel parks very nicely.

It’s getting dark out, so in the end they decide to just let Caine walk about with his wings as they are. “They’ll just look at your facial hair and think you’re doing like, that cosplay thing or whatever,” Jupiter says. “Don’t worry about it.”

"I don’t worry," Caine says. "People see what they want to see."

"What I really want to see is your wings," Jupiter says, and grabs his arm. She’s got the map up on her phone, and she steers him in the direction of the dog park.

"I’m not actually a dog," Caine says. He looks up at a big statue of a doberman by the entrance. It’s about three times as tall as Jupiter. The park seems to be full of dog-themed _art_.

"I know," she says, and waves a hand. "This is for me."

Caine looks down at her.

She makes him pose in front of the statue and she takes a photo on her phone. “Awesome,” she says, and puts it on instagram straight away. It’s a bit too dark, and grainy from the artificial lighting in the park, but it makes her happy anyway.

A woman walks past with three dogs pulling her along. They all seem terrified of Caine - whuffling and whining and shrinking away from him. The woman gives him a filthy look, and Jupiter smiles, apologetically.

"You like the sea, right?" she says, once the woman and her dogs are gone. "Everybody likes the sea. We can go flying later, under the  _stars_. You can see way more of them when you’re far out like this. Oh my god, what if they’re reflected in the water.”

"I could take you to a planet that’s nothing but sea," Caine says. "I know one where the water’s pink. It’s very luminous."

She’s got the gravity boots on, and she nudges him with one of her feet. “Yeah, but is there dog-themed art there? And a Russian bakery on the seafront that will give me half-off cakes?”

"No," Caine admits.

"Well then," she says. "You get to choose our destination  _next_  time.”


	4. jupiter jones & caine wise 2 (wingfic)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from neenya on tumblr:
> 
> probably the least surprising prompt you will ever get but: jupiter ascending wingfic.
> 
> (follows on from the previous one, kind of)

"How come you get wings but I don’t?" Jupiter asked. "I’m a space queen, or whatever. I should get wings."

"That’s not really how it works," Caine says. "They’re military, you know."

"Yeah, but you’re not in the military now, are you," Jupiter says. "What do I have to do? Track down the genetic recurrence of the Abrasax father and stop him from marrying Titus?"

"They don’t have a father," Caine says. He skims a couple of large, flat stones out into the sea, but it’s very dark, and they disappear from sight before they disappear into the water. Caine pulls a couple of weird glowing pink balls out from his pocket and clacks them together. They float in the air, pushing over each other, and they flicker from bright to dark again. It’s kind of like sitting by a campfire.

"You’re shitting me," Jupiter says.

"Okay, they probably had fathers," Caine says. "But it would have been rude to ask about it."

Jupiter stares up at the sky. She’d been right, they had a really good view out here. She kind of wishes she’d brought the telescope, but it would have been too heavy to fly with.

Caine ruffles his wings, and says, “want to fly some more?” They’re on some strange, small rocky island in the middle of the ocean somewhere, and the tide’s coming in. The balls have started to hum. Jupiter looks down at her boots.”

"I’m tired," she says.

"Your majesty," Caine says, bowing slightly. "My wings are at your command." He stretches them out, and she reaches a hand and strokes one. He smiles at her, although she’s pretty sure he can’t feel it. They’re bionic, right? But who knows what the fuck that means. He didn’t come by his wolf genes organically but it doesn’t mean they’re not real, or part of him. So, sure. Maybe he can feel her when she touches the wings. She waggles her fingers against the wing nearest to her, like the way you’d try to tickle someone on the soles of their feet.

"Hey," Caine says. He bats her hand away, gently, with the wing, by flapping it forward, then back again. "Treat them with respect."

"Oh, I’m sorry," Jupiter says. "Did I tickle your wing."

"Of course not," Caine says. Damn. She thought she’d worked it out there. He flaps his wings once, twice, and takes flight. He looks down at her. It’s not fair, he’s taller than her anyway, and it’s not like she can really fly with her boots. They’re best at… hovering.

"It’s not fair," she says, her hands cupped around her eyes. "You’re already taller than me!"

The balls are circling around each other in the air above his head like two planets around an invisible sun. Or maybe a dead one.

"Hey," he says. "I’m just stretching." He puts his arms out, and yelps, as he stretches them too. "It’s getting late," he says. His wings glow a strange pink colour against the sky. 

Jupiter had never realised that you could see the galaxy beneath the stars before, not even when she’d actually been up there, travelling the galaxies. Like someone smashed loads of eggs against a pan and the whites have just started to go white. Like when you see photos of the earth taken by satellites, where cities are just background light, and not buildings or people.

"Well, you’re not leaving me here," Jupiter says. "Come on, let’s find sunrise, and then we can sleep."

"Your majesty," Caine says, and he picks her up, and when his wings start to beat and carry them up and forward, the air tickles against her bare skin, and she smiles, and has to stop herself from tickling him back, because if they fall out of the sky there’s nothing to catch them but water so cold and dark that it might as well be a black hole.


	5. darla deering & bentley 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt, from snickfic on tumblr:  
> Darla Deering, some FF kids, and a dinosaur. :D

"Bentley," Darla said. She crouched down next to him. "We’re having a TV party downstairs. Luna’s got a  _lot_  of DVDs.”

Bentley was fixing one of Reed’s machines. He wasn’t interested in Luna’s stupid DVDs. Besides, he’d already stolen them and watched them all at night when everybody else was sleeping. He didn’t want to watch them again.

"I know you like them," Darla said. Well, maybe not everyone. Scott had sat down with him and watched Spirited Away, that one time. It probably hadn’t helped him with the sleeping problems. "We’re going to watch the new series of Sailor Moon."

"I’m  _fixing this machine_ ,” Bentley said. Even though he hadn’t watched Sailor Moon Crystal yet.

"I can see that you’re doing something," Darla agreed. "But I don’t understand why you’ve borrowed my stuffed dinosaur for it."

Bentley scowled. “I can bring it to life,” he said, “if I just connect these wires properly.”

“ _Bentley_ ,” Darla said. “Did you ask Mr Scaleson if he  _wants_  to be alive?”

"You did not call your toy dinosaur that."

"Actually, Scott called him that."

"Grown-ups are  _gross_.”

"Bentley," Darla said. Bentley sighed, and took his hands away from the wires. He was wearing thick rubber gloves that he’d stolen from the kitchen. They were too big for him, and they made precise work… difficult.

"I think you should probably discuss the ethics of life creation with Reed first," Darla said.

Bentley managed to stop himself from saying, “I think you might think Reed is a better man than he actually is,” because it meant he could go downstairs and leave it all for another day. His fingers twitched. If he closed his eyes he could see the machine in front of him, as it could be. But. Darla picked her dinosaur up, and ran her hand backwards along its fur, so it stood up. That was  _stupid_. Dinosaurs were scaly.

Bentley thought he could hear the Sailor Moon music, even from up here.


	6. natasha & sam & steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opening couple of lines as a prompt from anon on tumblr, and also this reply, about the book:  
> I know what that book is (and yes, it will help, quite unexpectedly): it's an early edition of the Russian folk tales beautifully illustrated by Ivan Bilibin, an artist who wandered the world in exile until he at last went back home, and died in the WWII Siege of Leningrad...

"He belongs to you, right?" Steve asked, watching the sure advance of the paws up the fire escape, in through the open window, towards a full bowl on the kitchen floor.

Natasha humphed: "He's not my cat."

"You tried telling him that?" Steve asked. 

"Are you one of those animals don’t  _belong to anyone_  people,” Sam added, before she could answer. He was methodically eating his way through a box of Natasha’s cereal because he’d tried to run a half marathon with Steve that morning. “Because it looks to me like…”

Natasha blew a few strands of hair out her face, and Sam stopped talking.

"I feed a lot of people that I never invited in," Natasha said. "I’m a very welcoming person."

"Hey, I cooked for you," Sam said. " _That_  was welcoming. I didn’t even know you.”

"You wouldn’t have let me in if you did," Natasha said.

Steve was looking through Natasha’s books, and reached out to take one but Natasha said, “don’t,” so he put his hand down.

The cat was inhaling the food. It smelt - it had such a strong smell. Steve could feel it in the air. His cheeks reddened because he didn’t know why he’d reached for the book, and obviously you don’t touch other people’s things without asking - and he stared at the cat. “Sorry,” he said. The cat didn’t look up.

"Here," Natasha said, and handed the book to him. She rolled a small piece of paper between her finger and her thumb and then slid it into her back pocket. The book was big, but not very thick. Slighty yellowed pages at the edges. Steve didn’t know why he’d gone for this one, but the cover was a nice colour. Deep blue.

"It’s not going to help you," she said, her head cocked to one side, slightly. "But books aren’t there to help."

Sam poured himself another bowl of cereal, and said, “You never read the books my sister likes.”

"I’m not sure what I need," Steve said. "But we’ll work something out."

"I don’t have anything else," Natasha said, and poured some new water into the bowl. The cat had finished the food and was miaowing at her for more, pitifully, but Natasha wasn’t acquiescing. She scratched his head, behind his ears, and he tilted his face up, momentarily mollified, but then started crying for food again.

"You give him any more and he’ll think you’re rewarding him for crying," Sam said, waving his spoon in the air.

"Thank you, freshman psych," Natasha said. "You don’t need to tell  _me_. I never give in.” She scratched the cat’s head again, but he didn’t react this time. Natasha smiled at him. He was only small; he didn’t need more food than she’d given him.

"We’re off again tomorrow," Steve said. Natasha nodded.

"Yeah, we’re going to  _run_  there,” Sam said. “At least, that’s what I assume all this training is for.”

"You back for a while?" he asked Natasha. They were still standing close. He ran his hand over the cover of the book.

"All depends on who needs me," she said.

There’s certainly something about the illustrations that sticks with Steve, and that leaves him looking through the book that night until later, much later than he meant to be awake. Like if you close your eyes and wish really hard, you can go back. Or like, how it’s only when you press your face right up to the train window that - if it’s clean and there’s no weather - it’s like the glass isn’t there, everything is so close, but you don’t want to reach out and touch it. You are happy with your cold face, and your eyelashes sticking to the air.

It’s hard to think of the words. The book looks old, but the colours are bright. They almost bleed, but the lines are thick. A pawnshop Steve used to like looking in had the biggest snowglobe he’d ever seen - he never shook it, but he could get real close and stare at the people. They had lips. They had tiny drops of snow in their hair that stayed there for months. Each folk tale is meant to teach you something, after all. Steve has trouble remembering that.

 


	7. tony & clint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> opening line as a prompt from septembriseur on tumblr (kvikindi here)

 

 

Clint opened the door, and Tony Stark plunged through it to lie facedown on the newly refinished hardwoods. "Pepper's exiled me from my kingdom," Stark said. "Also, ow."

Clint stared at him for a few seconds, the door to his apartment still open. “Do you want anything,” he said.

"Am I bleeding, because I think I’m probably still bleeding," Stark said. Clint cocked his head slightly, and thought, it was hard enough to get my own blood off the floor, I don’t need yours on it too, but he didn’t say that.

"Uh, not that I can see," Clint said, a few moments later. Stark pressed his arms to the floor at his sides like he was about to get up, but didn’t move after that. It was the kind of position you see surfers in when they paddle out into the deep water, but they’re always eagerly moving forwards until they get up and get knocked over, and Stark was just lying there.

"I don’t think I can move my neck," Stark said, then immediately disproved that by turning his head around to look over his shoulder up at Clint, who was pouring three cups of coffee out of the pot, which was somewhere between hot and tepid now but would have to do. "What, are you not even going to ask about this," Stark asked, as Clint placed two cups on the ground in front of him. "Or about why I’ve come to your treehouse to cry sanctuary, and not, say, to one of my many other more powerful friends."

Clint stirred his own coffee. He hadn’t put anything in it - he just liked stirring it. Made a few bubbles, but they popped quickly.

By  _this_ , Stark presumably meant something specific, but Clint had no idea what, and didn’t really want to ask. Asking questions was just encouraging him.

Clint made a vague noise. “And how many years is your exile supposed to last for?”

Stark grimaced. “Probably until tomorrow afternoon, which is to say, until after there’s been a revolution and it becomes a republic and they only allow me back in so that they can hang me as an example. Uh, that one got away from me.”

"Bandages are somewhere," Clint said, while he thought of it. "Think Natasha put some in the cabinet in the bathroom."

Stark didn’t move. Clint wasn’t going to bring them to him.

"You do know that it’s 4 in the morning," Clint said.

"Uh, you’re the one drinking coffee in the dark," Stark said, "So sorry, man acting suspiciously like Bruce Wayne just back from a night of fighting the underprivileged and shabbily-dressed, I won’t be taking advice from you about the appropriate hour for paying a social call."

Clint pointedly stared at Stark for a while, rubbing his left arm with his right arm where it ached, and then said, “I can’t believe that you’re comparing  _me_  to Batman.”

Stark had started to drink his coffee. He made a face at the first sip, but kept on with it. “Totally different situation,” he said. “They were wearing suits.”

 


	8. steve & sam & natasha as space pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt from lady-alternate on tumblr:   
> Steve / Sam / Natasha as ...space pirates?

"Don’t touch that," Sam says, and he swats Natasha’s hand away from the controls. 

There’s a horrible buzzing noise coming from somewhere in the cockpit, and he already had a headache before it even started, and it’s hard to focus on working out what he needs to do without Natasha trying to fix things too -

"Everything good down there?" Steve’s voice crackles over the coms. "Raid in two hours!"

Sam groans and presses the inside of his wrist to his forehead. “Why does he sound so happy about that.”

Natasha smiles. Sam’s head throbs louder. “He hates being cooped up. All of space out there, and you want him to sit in his cabin and draw?”

"Well,  _I_  was pretty happy doing that before we got started,” Sam says. He braces his hands on either side of the second control deck. “Next time we steal a ship, remind me to offer the mechanic a good rate to  _stay on board_.”

"You know," Natasha says, slowly. "I used to work on a ship like this."

"Did you," Sam says. "Somehow, I’m not surprised."

He presses a clear yellow button, and the buzzing noise goes up by a half-tone.

"I don’t know if you already know this, but there’s a loud noise coming from the hull!" Steve says into the coms again. Sam has no idea where he is. Taking a run around the ship, probably, to burn off excess energy or something. What a nightmare. "I don’t know if it’s a problem! I just thought you might want to know!"

"I hate all of you," Sam says. Natasha stares at him, one hand on the back of the pilot’s chair. "Fine. Tell me, what did you do on this ship?"

"Mechanic," she says, and then she smiles again, and leans over Sam to press seven buttons in quick sequence. Next, she hits the palm of her hand onto a smooth metal part of the wall. Nothing happens at first, so she frowns and does it again.

The noise stops. Steve bursts through the door.

"Oh, good," he says. "I think the other ship might have got to the meeting point  _early_.”

Sam swears and calls up a feed from the front of the ship. Steve’s right. It’s quite big, chrome casing, a big red star winking from its roof. Must have robust cloaking if they missed its approach.

Natasha flicks him on the arm and says, “Let’s see how good your new pilot is at landing, Steve.”

Sam doesn’t bother correcting her. He’s a  _navigator_ , and just because they hired him under false pretences it doesn’t mean he’s suddenly got a license to fly this thing.

But somebody has to do it.

"I hope you know what you’re doing, Steve," Sam says. "Now get the hell out of here and put your suits on. You know what you’re there for?"

"Yeah," Steve says. "We’re going to see an old friend."

Sam thinks it’s too early in Steve’s career to talk that way about stealing  _back_  cargo, but he’s not in a position to argue. He takes the controls. “Hold on to something,” he calls into the coms. He straps himself in. “Hope your friends are ready for us.”


	9. bucky & steve, open mic night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from septembriseur on tumblr:
> 
> bucky goes to open mic night. poetry or acoustic guitar? your choice.

Steve runs out to get coffee one evening, because he hasn’t got around to buying a machine and he’s tired of instant. His usual shop is closed - they’re repainting it for summer - so he has to go a few blocks away until he finds something else that isn’t Starbucks. He likes to support local business if he can help it.

There’s a girl playing guitar when he goes in, and when she finishes her song (Steve claps enthusiastically), someone else gets up and plays a song on violin. When Steve’s paying for his latte and Bucky’s flat white, he says to the barista, “is this a concert?”

She laughs and gives him his change. “No, it’s an open mic,” she says. “Every Tuesday. Anyone can come and play.” She gives him a flyer and he tucks it into his pocket, and then he carries the coffees home.

He stands in the doorway, and looks at Bucky. He’s on the couch with a book, restlessly snapping his fingers.

Steve thinks about the girl playing the guitar.

*

Bucky’s dad had played fiddle occasionally, but Bucky had inherited a cousin’s old guitar and he’d learned a few chords and how to bash out some standards.

He couldn’t really sing, but that was okay. Steve didn’t mind. 

When Bucky’s dad died Steve got the fiddle, but he’d never really been able to learn. Bucky’d kept up the guitar, though, until he pawned it one winter to buy Steve some blankets and medicine, although he didn’t tell Steve that until months later, when Steve said  _where’s your guitar, Buck?_  and Bucky hesitated for too long to make up a lie.

Steve didn’t pawn the fiddle, but he tried to give it back to Bucky. Maybe he’d learn how to play that now. “It was a gift,” Bucky said, and that was that. 

Steve doesn’t know where it is now. Probably in a vault somewhere, or given to some other cousin of Bucky’s when they collected his things from their apartment after his death, and then lost or broken in the middle of the century he didn’t live through.

*

Steve gets Bucky a new guitar.

"Think you remember any chords?" Steve asks. Bucky frowns at it, and runs his hand along the frets. It’s made of wood. It’s almost red.

He almost gives it back. “What,” he says.

"It’s a gift," Steve says. "Or, well. I owe you."

Bucky remembers a couple of chords, anyway, and Sam helps him with a couple more. “I don’t know any songs,” Sam says. “I gave up too early for that. Now, the trumpet.  _That’s_  an instrument. No, put those fingers here.”

Steve buys Bucky some guitar books, and Bucky slowly starts to teach himself from the diagrams. He moves his fingers and stares at them.

It’s another language to Steve.

He’s got some old records that he plays, although mostly he just puts the radio on or the music on his phone. He’s got a weird selection, he guesses - just everything everyone told him he had to listen to, from Soundgarden to Marvin Gaye, and then some mixes that Tony had emailed him that he had listened to once out of politeness and now skipped every song from when they came on.

He likes the radio. He doesn’t have to choose anything, and sometimes the DJs explain why they’ve chosen a song.

But anyway, it’s nice to hear Bucky playing the old songs. They were old back when he’d played them as a teenager with beaten-up hands from the fights he liked to get Steve out of, and they hadn’t much changed in the last 70 years. They don’t feel any older. That hasn’t much changed. And, well, he’s the same - as far as the songs are concerned. The callouses have gone, but then they’d been long gone by the war, anyway, and he has other things now. 

He doesn’t need books for these - with time, and more chords, they come back. He’d mostly just learnt what his family had taught him, so there’s a mix of union songs, songs his dad’s family had carried with them from Hungary, and whatever his cousins had been into that month. Some blues, some jazz, some obscenities.

Not that he sings along, now, but Steve remembers a lot of the words.

He often stops a verse or two in, or seems to forget how the song goes, but that’s not that different either. Nobody ever had time to teach or learn a whole song. It was a way to pass the time.

Sometimes he just sits with his hands on the guitar, or he hits it to get out a beat but nothing else. Steve reads, and draws, and sits on the other side of the room. He doesn’t really need an audience right now, but Steve can’t bear to leave the room, and Bucky doesn’t ask him to. He closes his eyes, sometimes, and imagines that Bucky’s about to sing. He mouths along, but always out of time.

One day, he gets two verses into a filthy song that Patrick had taught him when they were fifteen - Steve still remembers all of the words, but he doesn’t blush so easy anymore - when he stops and turns to face Steve. He throws his plec at him. He is very precise. “Hey,” Steve says.

"What did you do. The fiddle," Bucky says. "I gave you a fiddle."

Steve winces. “Buck, you know as well as me that I’m never going to be a musician.”

"Lousy with a beat," Bucky says.

*

"You remember the words?" Steve says to him, one day. "Your ma used to sing this one."

Bucky screws up half of his face, then nods. “Some words,” he says. “First verse. Nobody ever knew how it went then.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Nobody did. But it’s nice to hear some of it.”

Bucky nods, and he still can’t really sing, and the lines are in the wrong order.

Steve sings along, anyway. Bucky’s still better than he is. “No wonder nobody ever danced with you,” Bucky says.

 


	10. clint & the other avengers as FBI agents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this anonymous prompt on tumblr:  
> the avengers as FBI agents with no superpowers
> 
> for some reason, i decided to set it on a cruise ship

Clint’s still kind of annoyed that the rest of his team got to pretend to be guests on the ship, and he’s crew.

"We need someone in the crew’s quarters," Maria had said. "Besides, you’re no good at pretending to be rich."

"I’m great at undercover," Clint had said, rubbing at the collar on his shirt. "Besides, I  _am_  rich. This job pays money.”

Maria’d looked at him.

Tony’s whole approach seems to be to be as loud and annoying as possible. At least everyone - crew included - knows that he’s rich, and he’s indiscreet enough that they’d not suspect him of being anyone other than the loser he’s pretending to be.

The only contact they’ve had since the start of the trip has been Clint refilling Tony’s wine when Tony snaps his fingers at him.

Clint hates Tony, has he mentioned.

Natasha sits in the bar, and drinks with whoever else is there. She talks to the bartender, and tips him.

Steve spends his time swimming and taking part in whatever sports activities are on, and in the evenings he reads books on deck. 

Bruce sits with Tony and Tony loudly talks about the women that he’ll set Bruce up with when they’re back home. Bruce scrubs his hands across his face, embarrassed.

Thor wears the weirdest clothes Clint’s ever seen, and he does different things every day. “It is good to be free of my family,” he says to Clint, as he shakes his hand and tips him well for bringing him his drink. “I hope you have a good evening.”

Clint smiles, and thinks, how the hell is this going to work.

The thing is that they just don’t know what’s wrong, but people who ride on these cruises keep going missing, and things keep going missing, too, but the cruise operator won’t co-operate. Clint got the job through an agency, and he slowly makes friends with the people he’s working with. A week in, and he’s helping set the tables up for breakfast, and he says, “I was worried about taking this job at first. You hear things about these ships, y’know?”

The woman he’s talking to laughs darkly and adjusts the napkins. “Kid,” she says.

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "It’s money."

It’s a week later, and he’s almost lost track of how long they’ve been at sea, when it happens.

"Hey," Tony says, flagging him down at afternoon drinks. "Hey, you, waiter. My watch and wallet have gone missing. Who do I have to speak to around here? This is not acceptable, this is a gross misconduct, I want to sue."

Clint pours him some more wine. “Yes, sir,” he says.

Natasha touches his shoulder as she leaves the bar. “Excuse me,” she slurs, perfectly. “Can - can you help me find my room? I can’t.”

Clint walks with her, an arm respectfully around her shoulder. “Here you are,” he says, and she smiles at him, and gives him a tip.

It’s a piece of paper. It says, Tomorrow, 08:00.

He rips it into tiny shreds and flushes them down the toilet in his cabin. They’re almost at port. It’s the middle of the night. He sits down on deck and stares out to sea. The woman he’d talked to over breakfast that morning’s lighting a cigarette, and she wanders over once it’s done. “Smoke?” she says, and he takes one and lights it with a match that he throws overboard from far away.

"I can’t wait to get off this piece of shit," she says. Clint holds his breath. She smiles at him. "But I’ve always liked the view."

"Yeah," Clint says. "How long’ve you done this for?"


	11. bucky & steve & pizza dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from febricant on tumblr:  
> Bucky bonds with Pizza Dog

"Remind me why Clint couldn’t just pay for a dogsitter?" Steve says.

It’s his turn to walk the dog, and he’s not  _unhappy_  about it, but he’s never really walked a dog before.

"You’ve met him," Natasha says, and doesn’t elaborate. She’s wearing sunglasses, and she’s got a big chocolate-coated pretzel in her hand, and other places to be. She doesn’t share. "It’ll be fun."

**

Steve walks the dog and Bucky curls up on Clint’s sofa. It smells like dog. TV doesn’t work. Or maybe it. Doesn’t work the same as Sam’s. Cornflakes on the counter. Scattered. Stale. Thinks that maybe. If even the dog won’t.

"Bucky," Steve says. Sour milk. Puts down.

"It tastes," he says. "Uh." Back of throat. Spoon with a. Cataract. Walk through Brooklyn too. Of a smell. Of another sky. Bits of milk. Like clouds. End of horizon. Hand to mouth. 

"You had breakfast before we left," Steve says, and he pours the rest of the milk down the sink. "Are you hungry? We could get lunch."

Bucky stares out of the window. Sun. Rain. Steve’s hair clumps. The dog shakes. Dirt. Dries standing. Up.

"He jumped into a puddle," Steve says, and frowns. "I don’t know why he did that."

The dog rolls around on the floor and pads over to Bucky. Lots of. Feet. Wet.

"He’s. His name?" Bucky says.

Steve pauses. “Um,” he says. “Lucky. He’s - Lucky.”

Bucky looks at the dog.

"Hello," he says. Dog walks into his leg.

Steve looks through Clint’s takeout menus. “We could order some pizza,” he says. “There’s one they sell with egg on it. Egg. Egg on a pizza.”

Bucky looks at the dog. Dog’s ears. An eye not. Hand on head.

Warm and wet. Inside. Rain out there.

"Egg," Bucky says. Sour throat. Steve few paces. Tongue roof of mouth. "No business being on a pizza."


	12. bucky & tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from a tumblr anon:
> 
> iron man meets winter soldier for the first time with steve nowhere in sight

"I resent that remark, when I said I’d be back for dinner I didn’t say dinner tonight. Besides, it’s Tuesday. I just have juice on Tuesdays. Uh, and those bagels - do we have enough bagels? I might have time still to change my mind."

Something about the voice, intonation.

But none of that any more.

A hand to the throat. Metal. Metal.

"Uh, wait, hang on, there’s someone on the other line."

No compression. Breaths.

Fingers pressed as hard as the throat. Something that looks like a throat.

Thrown back.

"I’ve heard about you, don’t think that I haven’t."

Inches off the ground, mask over his face. Thick eyebrows. Something there that says.

Runs a hand. No mask either. Eyebrows? Eyes? Mouth? Lashes? Teeth?

Click. No pain in the hard parts.

"Yeah, buddy, I feel the same way."

A metal hand. Touch without grip.

"I have a project that could really use your kind of expertise."


	13. steve & bucky, 19th century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from _anonymous_ on tumblr:
> 
> Steve/Bucky, 19th century England. Steve is a poor painter. Bucky is the first-born son of some local gentry.

Every time Stephen calls him  _sir_  and asks him to  _please keep still_ , James scowls.

In the end, Stephen stops asking. All of those clothes must be very warm. It’s June, and Stephen’s shirts are light, no colour to them, but they let the air in.

James wouldn’t be able to say the same.

James never asks to see the painting while Stephen’s still working. But when it’s finished - when his parents step back, and admire the colours, and the shape of his face - he finally catches Stephen’s eye.

"What do all the trinkets mean," he asks. Stephen swallows. James - the James in the _painting_  - is holding a large snow globe, and behind him there are tin soldiers, feathers, and various maps on the wall.

An hour later, and James has arranged for Stephen to give him regular lessons in understanding art.

It’s only at the first of these lessons that Stephen realises that the scowling had been about _sir_. “Call me Bucky,” he says, as he twirls a paintbrush between his fingers. “All of my other friends do.”

Stephen’s fingers tighten on the museum catalogue. He has never seen him in clothes as casual as these. He nods, and Bucky smiles, and Stephen thinks, _I’m going to need to paint you again_.


	14. sam & bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from anonymous on tumblr:
> 
> sam&bucky friendship while steve was in hospital. they met for the first time. little bit of angst / comfort

He breaks into the hospital. The - the other man from the bridge is there. He sips his coffee. Everything else is sterile. The coffee smells so much, so. Splash of ink on paper. Sharp line dulls.

So he breaks in at night and it’s the woman, and - - - he knew her somewhere before.

Scratch of hand on skin.

Runs through the night, is sick, can’t remember her face.

Next day, the same thing, same window. But - hand on his wrist when he turns.

The other man looks at him.

"He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re here about," the man says. No coffee . Feet a comfortable distance apart, weight evenly spread. Plastic cup. Tea. Milk. "If you’re here to finish your job, then we’re going to have a problem."

Tugs his wrist. Shakes his - - something.

"That’s what I thought."

The other man hands him the plastic cup. He looks at it. Warm. Not too hot. Tries not to grip too much. Enough.


	15. steve & bucky, (english) highschool au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from anonymous on tumblr:
> 
> steve/bucky, high school, bucky was the star of the football team whereas steve wrote poetry for eng lit society
> 
> [this](http://www.wivenhoebooks.com/pleasing-poetry-entries-2/) is the poem they're talking about

Bucky sits down next to Steve on the edge of playing field, right at the slope where it dips down to meet the playground. His left hand’s wrapped in a bandage up to the middle of his forearm, which it wasn’t before mid-morning break. There’s about ten minutes left of lunch, and a lot of boys (and girls) are playing football at the other end of the field.

"You OK?" Steve asks, and taps Bucky’s arm.

"Oh," Bucky says. He’s already lying down, his other hand thrown across his face. He takes Steve’s book off him and makes a face. "Simon Armitage’s shit."

"He’s got one about a goalie you might like," Steve says, and Bucky rips up a handful of grass and throws it at him, but the wind blows it in the opposite direction.

Bucky props himself up on his elbows, and then winces. Steve doesn’t watch him play anymore - he never gets out of the way when the ball’s too hard and fast, and his gloves are thin and scratched and useless. “I think we got the moral victory,” he says. 

Steve smiles at him. “Of course you did,” he says.


	16. steve & bucky, actors au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from an anon on tumblr:
> 
> steve/bucky, actors meeting on set, steve older than buck

It’s the first day of shooting when Steve finds out that Tony quit. He suspects that this isn’t an accident - they’d signed on at the same time, and he probably wouldn’t have said yes without Tony bullying him into it.

It’s a short shoot. He can still do this.

"Last minute," the director says. "He wasn’t comfortable with the amount of improvisation the script required."

Bullshit.

The shoot’s out of the way and the executive producer’s a dick.

Steve wishes he’d had the same idea.

Steve wishes he was the kind of guy who could say “Tony’s a dead man.”

The guy they’ve cast in his place is about twenty years younger (not much younger than Steve, though) and he’s got dark hair that the hair and make-up team have slicked back. Steve’s never seen him before. He’s joking with the crew, and Steve can barely work out how to talk to people he’s never met before anyway, without… cameras on him.

 _I can’t do this_ , he thinks.

Tony’s the fucking worst.

"Bucky," the man says, and leans over to shake his hand. "I hope you’re not too upset. Don’t worry, I know all my lines."

He grins at his own joke, but it’s a nice grin, at least.  _Stop it, stop it_ , Steve thinks.  
  
So Steve shakes his head, and saves his words for when the cameras roll.

Bucky claps a hand onto his chest first thing when they do, and it’s only when the scene’s done, hours and hours later, that Steve realises that he never ran out of things to say.

"From now on," Steve says, "I am only making movies where they tell me exactly what my lines are."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky says, into his third scotch. "Not doin’ too badly from where I’m standing."

"Light’s in your eyes," Steve says, easily, and finishes off his lime and soda.


	17. steve & bucky, supervillains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on this prompt from connaissais on tumblr:
> 
> steve/bucky, supervillains!

"Put the paper down, Steve," Bucky says. "Got places to be."

"Yeah, yeah," Steve says, and checks his watch. "We’ve got five minutes yet. An article in here calls us villains, can you believe that?" He’s set his jaw and he looks, why does he look upset? Is this news to him? Bucky bites back on the impulse to tear the paper from his hands and explain to him exactly what their lives  _are_. What the fuck. This is the last time he lets Steve finish up the local research over breakfast.  
  
"Uh, yeah," Bucky says. "Since we’re about to go and gut an old SHIELD base in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere Ohio, crossed my mind once or twice. You got your clip?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve grumbles, and gets to his feet, but he’s not done yet. "Come on Bucky, SHIELD are evil. They’re like cartoon bad guys. We’re just people. I never even killed a civilian yet and they go about startin’  _wars_.”

"Pretty sure nobody  _thinks_  they’re the bad guys, Steve,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mention that he definitely did kill a civilian that time, even though he didn’t mean to, because it happened all the same and it wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been there, and he has to live with that. He finishes pinning his hair up and then checks that he’s got all of his guns and knives strapped to him. He runs his hand along his inner thigh to check for the last one, and he’s done, but Steve’s just standing there all useless, so he sighs and starts to pat Steve down for his knives and all that too. It’s not as exciting as it could be, as Steve doesn’t seem to acknowledge that Bucky’s touching him. Bucky claps his hands onto Steve’s chest, and at last Steve looks up, but he’s still preoccupied.  _Worst fucking villain I ever met_ , Bucky thinks to himself.

"I mean, I know the Avengers aren’t exactly callin’ us up," Steve says, sadly, "but…"

"Steve," Bucky says, crouching down to check that Steve’s got a knife on his shin, and resisting the urge to do something inadvisable with it, "maybe you write the local paper a postcard when we skip out of Ohio."

He spins his last gun around in his hand and shoves it inside his leather jacket, and then he zips it halfway up. He tugs on Steve’s sleeve to pull him closer, and he does some of Steve’s jacket’s buttons up for him, and then pats him on the cheek. He’ll snap out of it before they get to the not-so-safehouse, he knows. Steve’s not  _that_  righteous. Not when it could get him killed.

"Y’never know," he says. "One of these days someone on the inside might see it like we do. Maybe they’ll promote us to anti-heroes."

"Pretty sure nobody thinks they’re an _anti-hero_ , Buck,” Steve says, sourly. “That’s just what they call bad guys people want to bang.”

"I’ve been called worse," Bucky says, and he opens the front door.


End file.
